Tuesday, April 15, 2008

My dearest God,

The majestic dark gray cross rose up nearly to the rafters in a great cathedral ceiling. A white cloth wrapping its cross bars, I felt small, like a child. I was at the foot of the cross, we all were, all 560 of us ministers across Indiana.

A version of John Wesley stepped into the center aisle and challenged our faith and spiritual practices. Everyone seated knew this was not John Wesley but he may as well have been because he was so life like, his words so stirring.

So that when we were offered the opportunity to come to the altar to renew our baptism with shells and water, we all came. Not with a look of responsibility, but with a refreshment that we all sorely needed. Seated at the first seat on the center aisle in the second row, I watched them come, saw their faces as they walked away still holding on to their shell. We all walked away with a sign of Jesus, water in the form of a cross, hands washed clean, heads baptized with the living water of God. I simply washed my lips, wanting only to release words of faith, of beauty and trust, of love for you and my neighbor at home and abroad. We sang and sang and sang as we waited in the long lines for this cleansing exercise.

Simply satisfied to sit alone without extending myself, I realized this crowd of weary souls was my spiritual family. Every one of them. They serve the church, the people. They heard you call out and they answered with a yes. Some were terribly battle weary, having faced the trials of humanity, some have labored in jails bringing a word of hope to the captives. All have stood at the bedside helping families say goodbye. They have listened to the torment of couples anguishing over their children captivated by drugs. They have wept when the church turned in on itself, failing to see you in their midst. They have prayed uncountable times and lifted your living word off the page to spiritually starving people. These are my brothers and sisters, servants to your church.

I was asked to be a small group facilitator, trying to help clergy find connection with each other. With a sheet full of questions that would lead us to one another, I simply shared briefly my own life experience with my covenant group. I told them how this small group of spiritual friends along with a convent of faithful nuns have saved my life so many times, how through my own cancer, the cancer of my daughter and the estrangement of another, through church trials, family issues, and other various health issues, one man and a handful of women have buoyed me up, challenging me to dig deeper into a rock hard faith, softened only by the spirit, and loving me unconditionally.

That was the door that swung open. Four out of ten had shown up, just the number God had deemed good for our group. One man had testicular cancer, then two recurrences and a bone marrow transplant. Another man's wife had thyroid cancer and then a year later colon cancer. She's still in difficult treatment. The other man had prostate cancer a year ago and now his wife is battling pancreatic cancer. My own breast cancer rounded our group. We simply talked about cancer, our feelings, our faith, our difficulties. Our connection.

Having had to leave the two-day conference for a church meeting, I returned at 9:00 p.m. for a Taize service. Walking into the quiet chapel, so many candles burning in the front, I rested in a pew, being transported to a little town in a beautiful, lush valley in south central France, home to a community called Taize. The rich harmonic music was the melody of the world's people singing together in each other's language, all crying out for peace and harmony. For an hour we listened to the prayers, the words of John 14, and we sang. As we exited, we carried the peace of Christ into our cars and returned home.

I drove quietly all the way home, remembering, reflecting, contemplating the day's events, God-With-Us.

Glorious Everlasting God,
you reach out
to your children,
washing us clean,
soothing our weary souls,
offering words of hope,
of peace, compassion, and love.
Like the psalmist,
you restore our soul.
You feed us
from the banquet table,
food that lasts
until eternity.
And you revive us,
equipping us once again
to step out on faith,
to reach our neighbor,
to extend love.

Gratefully, Andrea